RETURNED!
“You are certain no one but yourself and Mr. Carling possesses a key to
the safe, Sir Robert?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you think it impossible that anyone may have obtained either of
the keys and had a duplicate made.”
“No copy has been made,” Sir Robert answered. “The pattern is unique,
it could not be reproduced except by the makers, and I telephoned to
them this morning. In any case they would not have made another key
except from my personal instructions.”
“H’m.”
Snell, the detective, who had been summoned to Grosvenor Gardens on
that eventful afternoon, stood thoughtfully sliding the secret panel to
and fro.
“You are sure no one could have access to either of the existing
keys--in the course of the night, or early this morning?”
“Quite sure. Carling declares that his was never out at his possession
for an instant till he handed it to me just now, and I put it on the
ring with my own.”
Sir Robert pulled the keys, attached to a strong steel chain, out of
his trousers pocket, and slipped them back again.
“Just so. I’d like to have seen Mr. Carling, but of course he had to
go; a man doesn’t get married every day. Where do you keep your own
keys at night, Sir Robert?”
“Under my pillow. It is quite impossible that anyone can have obtained
possession of them without my knowledge.”
“Yet the papers disappeared,” remarked the detective dryly. “Well, will
you give me a description of them, Sir Robert? You say they were secret
dispatches; were they in cipher?”
“One was; it was in French, and would be quite unintelligible to anyone
who did not possess the key to the code used. Mr. Carling’s report on
them both was also written in our private cipher, which only he and I
understand.”
“Have you a key to that cipher?”
“Only in our heads; Carling invented it, and we memorized it.”
“How about the French code? Was that memorized also?”
“By ourselves, yes; at least we are so familiar with it that we never
need to consult the code. It’s in the drawer of the safe.”
“That has not been stolen, then?”
“No. The theft of the French paper and of Carling’s report really does
not matter much, for practically it would be impossible for any outside
person to decipher them; but the other, which is by far the most
important, was not in cipher, unfortunately.”
“What language was it in?”
“Russian.”
Snell glanced up quickly, as the thought flashed to his mind that Lady
Rawson was herself said to be Russian by birth. Sir Robert did not meet
his eyes. He appeared to be regarding an ivory paper-knife that he was
fingering. His face was drawn and haggard; he seemed to have aged by
ten years in the course of the last few hours, yet he was perfectly
self-possessed.
“Whom do you suspect, Sir Robert?”
The blunt, point-blank question would have startled any ordinary man
into an admission--even by an unguarded gesture--that he was concealing
something. But Sir Robert Rawson’s face betrayed nothing, and he
continued to play with the paper-knife as he replied:
“If I had any reason to suspect anyone, I should have told you at once,
Mr. Snell. The whole affair is a mystery to me.”
“They were in the safe last night?”
“I cannot say. As a matter of fact, I meant to have dealt with them
last night, but when we returned--Lady Rawson and I were at a dinner
party--I felt extremely tired and went straight to bed. When I found
the papers were missing this morning I was not especially alarmed at
the moment; I imagined they had proved to be of little consequence,
and that perhaps Carling had taken them with him to finish later. It
was only when I rang him up on the telephone, and he came round, that
I realized how serious the matter was, and even then I thought it
possible that he might have merely mislaid them.”
“Who besides yourself and Mr. Carling knew of the existence and
importance of the papers, and that they were in the house?”
“Not a soul!” Sir Robert’s tone was absolutely emphatic.
“Not to your knowledge perhaps, Sir Robert; but someone must certainly
have known. Did anyone come into the room while Mr. Carling was engaged
on them last night?”
“No one at all after I left.”
“He told you so?”
“Yes, and Thomson, my confidential servant, confirmed that.”
“Does Thomson know of the loss of the papers?”
“Yes. He is the only one of the servants who does know at present,
though the others were questioned--all who were in and out of the room
either last night or this morning. Although Carling was positive he
placed the papers in the safe, I thought it possible he might have been
mistaken, and that he left them on the table.”
“Has he ever made such a mistake before?”
The ghost of a smile flitted across Sir Robert’s stern face.
“No, but there would have been considerable excuse if he had been
guilty of such carelessness last night. However, he declares that he
did put them away, in the same envelope in which they were sent to
me--an official one, printed with my name and address. He sealed it.”
“About the servants. Are there any foreigners among them?”
“Two only, I believe, both French: the _chef_ and Lady Rawson’s maid.”
“I will see them all in turn, beginning with Thomson. May I ring?”
He put one or two questions to the footman who answered the summons
before sending him in search of the valet.
“Who was on duty in the hall last night?”
“I was, sir--till ten, when I went to supper.”
“Were there any callers?”
“No, sir.”
“Mr. Carling was in this room the whole time?”
“I suppose so, sir. I never saw him come out.”
“Did anyone enter the room while Mr. Carling was there?”
“No, sir, only Sir Robert and my lady.”
“Who relieved you when you went off duty?”
“Mr. Thomson was in the hall, sir; he was going to wait up for Sir
Robert and my lady. Mr. Jenkins, the butler, and some of the others had
the evening off, as the family dined out.”
“Just so. Will you send Mr. Thomson here?”
In the interval Snell turned to Sir Robert, who had evinced no special
interest in the brief colloquy; doubtless he had questioned the man to
the same purpose already.
“I suppose Lady Rawson is already aware of the loss of these papers,
Sir Robert?”
The query was uttered lightly, as if it was of no importance or
significance, but was accompanied by a keen glance at Sir Robert’s
harassed yet inscrutable face--a glance which again the financier did
not meet. He laid down the paper-knife before he answered, in a tone as
apparently careless as the detective’s had been.
“No. I should have told her, of course, when we came to the conclusion
that they were really lost, but she had already gone out. I was to have
joined her after lunch, and gone on to Carling’s wedding. She will be
there now,” he added, glancing at the clock on his writing-table.
Snell’s eyes glistened. (“Lady Rawson’s in this, right enough,” he told
himself confidently. “And he knows it. He only sent for me as a bit of
bluff!”)
Thomson entered, and advanced towards his master, ignoring the presence
of a second person. At that moment the telephone on the writing-table
tinkled, and Thomson stood still, silent and deferential as usual, as,
mechanically, Sir Robert took down the receiver.
“Yes? Yes, I am Sir Robert Rawson. Who is speaking?... Oh!... What’s
that?... What?”
The two who were watching him, more or less furtively, were startled,
for he dropped the receiver, stumbled to his feet, and glared round
helplessly, a dusky flush rising to his face, which was horribly
distorted.
Thomson was by his side in an instant, thrusting a supporting arm
around him, but Snell sprang forward, seized the receiver and spoke
imperatively into the telephone.
“Who is there?... Yes, Sir Robert Rawson was speaking a moment ago,
but he has been taken ill.”
He glanced at the group close by. Sir Robert had fallen, or been
lowered by Thomson to the floor, and the valet was rapidly unloosening
his collar.
“Who are you?... Oh, it’s you, Evans. Western Division. Yes, I’m John
Snell of Scotland Yard.... Well, what is it? Lady Rawson murdered! Had
she any papers in her possession?... What? Right. I’ll be with you as
soon as possible. Ring off.”
“Master, master!” Thomson was stammering. “He’s dying!”
Snell pressed the electric bell, and hurried to meet the footman.
“Sir Robert is taken ill; he’s had bad news. Lady Rawson has been
murdered. Better telephone for a doctor and fetch the housekeeper.”
Two minutes later he was speeding westward in a taxi, eager to
investigate this sudden and tragic development of the case, for he
assumed instantly that the murder was the outcome of the theft of the
papers.
At the house in Grosvenor Gardens confusion reigned for a time.
The only one among the flurried servants who kept a clear head at
this crisis was the imperturbable Thomson, who, after the unwonted
outburst of emotion that escaped him as he knelt beside his stricken
master, resumed his habitual composure, and promptly took charge of
the situation as it affected Sir Robert himself. For the time being
he practically ignored the news of the murder, which the others,
naturally enough, began discussing with awestruck excitement. Now, as
ever, his one thought was his master, and with deft tenderness he did
what he thought best--loosening the sufferer’s clothes and raising his
head. When the doctor arrived Thomson proved an invaluable assistant in
every way.
“Will he recover, sir?” he asked, with poignant anxiety, when at length
they quitted the room to which Sir Robert had been carried, leaving him
still unconscious, but breathing more naturally, and with a trained
nurse already in attendance.
“Yes, yes, I hope so; but it was an overwhelming shock, of course. Is
this terrible news about Lady Rawson true? It seems incredible.”
Thomson passed his hand over his forehead dazedly.
“I suppose it is, sir. I haven’t seemed to have time to think about
it. It’s a terrible upset, and Mr. Carling away and all. There’s Lord
Warrington. Excuse me, sir. I’d better speak to him.”
There were several people in the hall, including a couple of energetic
reporters who had managed to enter and were endeavouring to interrogate
the worried butler and anyone else whom they could buttonhole, for
the news had spread like wildfire, and outside a crowd had assembled,
watching and waiting for the grim homecoming of the woman who had left
that house but a few hours before in the full vigour of youth and
beauty.
Thomson approached a short, spare, but authoritative-looking man,
who had just been admitted, and before whom the others gave way
respectfully--Lord Warrington of the Foreign Office.
“Will you come in here, my lord?” he said, and ushered him into the
library.
The same young footman whom Snell had questioned hurried forward and
detained Thomson for a moment, extending a salver with a heap of
letters.
“These have just come by post, Mr. Thomson. Hadn’t you better take
them?”
Thomson did so mechanically, and followed Lord Warrington, who turned
to him the instant the door was closed.
“This is an awful business, Thomson! Where’s Sir Robert?”
“In bed, and at death’s door, my lord. They telephoned the news to him
about my lady, and he had a kind of stroke.”
“Good Heavens! But what does it all mean, man? What was Lady Rawson
doing out there in the suburbs--and murdered in a post office telephone
booth, of all places in the world!”
He waved an evening paper he was carrying, and Thomson glanced at it
dully.
“I don’t know anything about it, my lord, except just that my lady was
murdered. The Scotland Yard detective told me that, but I didn’t seem
to grasp it at the time; I was too distressed about my master, and I’ve
been with him ever since.”
“A detective? Did he bring the news?”
“Oh, no, my lord, it was through the telephone. He was here about those
papers that are missing----”
“Papers? What papers?”
“Some that arrived by special messenger yesterday, my lord.”
Warrington stared aghast.
“Those! He told me about them at dinner. Missing! D’you mean they’re
lost? Stolen?”
“I thought perhaps you knew, my lord. Mr. Carling put them in the safe
last night--or said he did--and this morning they were gone. Sir Robert
was very put out, and so was Mr. Carling.”
“Gone! Good Lord! I wonder what was in them and who’s got hold of
them?” muttered Lord Warrington in utter consternation. His glance
lighted on the letters that Thomson held.
“What have you got there?”
Thomson looked at them with a preoccupied air.
“Only some letters, my lord, just come. I don’t know what to do with
them, as Mr. Carling’s away.”
“Here, give ’em to me--that one anyhow.”
“That one” was a big, bulky, blue envelope, printed with Sir Robert’s
name and address, and showing also the district postmark and a big
official stamp indicative of the surcharge for an unpaid letter.
“Where the dickens is Broadway?” Warrington muttered, as he scrutinized
it. “Look here, Thomson, I’m going to open this. Why the seal’s broken
already!”
“Very good, my lord,” Thomson murmured deferentially but abstractedly.
Yet he looked up with quickened interest as Lord Warrington uttered an
involuntary exclamation.
“My lord! They--they’re not those very papers?”
“They are! By Jove, that’s the queerest thing I’ve ever known! Now, who
the deuce has found and returned them?”